Mourning Memories
by Raven4129
Summary: Sequel to Courting with Danger. Mac discovers a secret Keeva never intended to reveal and now she's faced with the consequences.
1. Broken

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of these guys except Keeva, so please don't sue me. I own nothing...

**A/N**: Sorry it took so long to add a sequel but I felt this chain of events had to happen and they were very difficult to put together. BTW, I flubbed on the last chapter of Courting with Danger, sorry! The family rum is Irish, not Scottish; don't even know where the Scottish came from. Anyway, on with the new :)

It was the simple comment she had let slip that piqued Mac's interest so abruptly that he'd not had something to add to the conversation as the three of them had sat in a local pizza parlor after a long work day. Maybe it was the fact he didn't know her very well, or the fact he saw Keeva in a much different light than the young detective sitting next to her did, but either way, what she had said made his stomach churn with uncertainty. It was why he was still sitting in his office as the clock ticked closer and closer to eleven, his fingers dancing lightly over the keyboard of his computer as he debated whether or not to betray a trust Flack never distributed freely, a trust Mac cherished among his coworkers.

_"Well, when we were on a job in Vegas last year I just remember how homesick I'__d been for Angelo'__s pizza."_

She had recovered casually with a little side-note that she and Justin could never hold down a job for more than a few months, and followed up with a light, airy laugh, but the only one she had fooled successfully was Don. Mac knew the kid's mind was elsewhere, and had been for the last week when he had stolen away in Mac's office to model the small teardrop diamond for him. Danny had been the first to hear of Flack's intentions, but without really saying so, it was the elder's opinion that mattered more and at the time he'd felt himself swell with pride. Those who worked under him and with him had gradually become his children, and presently as he mulled over the events of the last week his heart ached to be wrong. Just for once he wanted to be wrong and to be able to pass Donnie a cold beer at his wedding reception.

Even as he was fighting his options in his brain, his fingers had begun to absently type in her name. Surely with such a strange spelling her name would pop up instantly, good or bad. Mac could have his results instantly, so easily it almost felt like a crime and in essence it was. Don had no idea of his intentions, no clue that Mac suspected the woman he loved of ulterior motives.

_"...when we were on a job..."_

What kind of job? A legitimate, honest American, taxable employment? Or was it exactly as he suspected. A con...money laundering...drugs?

His computer beeped rhythmically at him, the screen flashing in time with the words "Match Found" screaming at him in a putrid green text he never used to mind until this evening, and he wondered when he had pressed the Enter key.

"Okay," he said aloud, reading her name at the top of the monitor and immediately recognizing her mug shot that was to the left. Her hair had been pulled back clumsily to allow a better view of her face but the photograph was hardly flattering. Mascara was blotted around the lower rim of her eyes and creased deeply into the corners. Her nose was bleeding and the blood had trickled over her lips, and Mac briefly cursed the booking officers for not wiping it for her then laughed at such a trivial emotion of protectiveness.

Traveling further down, he was sadly not surprised to see she had a rap sheet, and while it wasn't a novel, it certainly made for a somewhat lengthy read. Aliases included Leslie Taylor, Aislynn McAllister, and a few others Mac had never come across, but below that was the real meat of it all, the worst of Mac's fear. Multiple arrests for petty theft were sprinkled among various fraud charges and a few possessions, but he noticed she had rarely done any time, her freedom likely won by a very good defense lawyer.

Mac's stomach churned faster and he stood abruptly as his eyes reluctantly read the final line of text, these words emblazoned with bold, green letters. It was an arrest warrant and Mac knew he had no choice but to call Don.

* * *

Thirty minutes had ticked by slowly, Danny sitting at Flack's desk while he watched the clock and spun back and forth in the weathered green chair. In his mind he ran scenarios of what could be happening inside the interrogation room, all of them ending positively now that he'd had the chance to mull over his feelings. The girl had tried...she'd really tried...

"Are they still talking?"

Danny sat up abruptly, his gaze meeting Stella's, and he nodded, briefly wondering how shed found out. News always did travel fast among them no matter the attempts at keeping it quiet. "Yeah. Its been half an hour already. I woulda thought they'd come out by now."

In a smooth motion, Stella rounded the corner of the desk and sat down, leaning her weight on her knees and looking intently at Danny, her eyes telling her feelings and when he looked away from her, Stella took his hand.

"I know," she said quietly. "I know."

Another few moments passed by agonizingly slow. The precinct was quiet aside from the dull roar of various detectives interviewing witnesses or booking perps, so when the door to the interrogation room exploded open, everyone took notice. Heads popped up everywhere to look as Detective Flack stalked out into the arrangement of desks, his eyes shooting daggers at anyone who dared to make eye contact, and with a sharp, angry cry he turned and threw a fist into the window of another room. The glass shattered and rained all over the floor, the tiny pieces bouncing as they scattered in various directions and Flack stumbled back, almost surprised at what he'd done. Both Danny and Stella jumped to their feet, staring at Don's bloodied hand before finally gaining their senses and hurrying over to him.

"Here," Stella began, reaching for the handkerchief Don kept in his jacket pocket but he brushed her away, sidestepping her and heading for the door. "Wait! Flack! Would you come back here?"

"Not while she's still here," he spat immaturely, walking toward the double doors. Moments later he was gone and before Danny could make it to the door to follow him, Stella grabbed his arm and shook her head.

"No…let him vent," she said quietly. She glanced back at the interrogation room where a uniform was escorting Keeva to booking and the two of them caught eyes for a brief moment. Stella saw that her eyes were puffy and black-rimmed with mascara and running in watery tendrils down her red-raw cheeks. She was still in handcuffs and her ring was no longer on her hand and Stella felt her chest clench uncomfortably. Her possessions hadn't been taken yet and wouldn't be until after she was booked, and once Keeva saw the knowledge dawn in Stella's eyes, she tore her gaze away and followed the uniform without struggle.


	2. Murder?

**Disclaimer:** Only Keeva belongs to me. Sadly, Donald Flack does not...

The corner of the holding cell was harsh against Keeva's back as she struggled to disappear into it, wanting desperately to leave the smell of dirty hair and grungy clothing as its stench hadn't touched her nose in so long. Despite her surroundings, however, she found she could count herself lucky considering most holding cells she had visited in the past had been overcrowded and noisy with colorful swearing at guards or distasteful comments toward the few number of women sprinkled in with the usuals. Tonight the cell was all but empty at the midnight hour, her only cellmate being that of a homeless man lying on a bench against the opposite wall as though he belonged there, and Keeva thought he might just have a claim on that seat. Most of the usuals she met were homeless, kicking up a little bit of trouble for a warm place to sleep for the night and she didn't blame them. Dating Justin had made her a little more sympathetic to them over the years.

Drawing in a deep breath, she curled one leg up against her chest and rested her chin upon it, tilting her head just enough so she could catch a glimpse of what was on the small television atop the guard's desk. It was Conan O'Brian doing his best Donald Trump and Keeva bit down on her bottom lip; just last night she and Don had sat under the quilt watching Conan interview a talking picture of President Bush, both of them laughing, delaying the inevitable. They had only made it through thirty minutes of the show before disappearing beneath the quilt, a memory Keeva now struggled to emblazon onto her brain for fear of forgetting since recent memories threatened to shatter everything she had worked for, everything she had prayed for.

No one was supposed to have known. Everything was supposed to have been taken care of. How? How did Mac find out? Did he do some digging on his own time simply because he didn't trust her? It was hard to tell; Mac kept things so close to the vest it was difficult to read what was in his eyes, much like it was difficult to read what emotion was bubbling inside of Don most days. Keeva had always assumed Mac liked her; he smiled when she was around, he invited her and Don on double dates occasionally, and had even offered to drive her to her doctor's appointment just days ago. There was no indication, not so much as an inkling of mistrust and Mac had blind-sighted her with an arrest warrant as she was groggily trying to wake up.

_"What the hell is goin' on here, Mac?"_

_"Don, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything later when you get to the precinct."_

The only thing Keeva could think as Mac gripped her firmly by the arm was how cute Donnie had looked with his ruffled hair and low-slung pajama bottoms, the ones he kept in a pile by the bed in case he had to hop up unexpectedly and the knock at the door at eleven o'clock had certainly been unexpected. She had refused to acknowledge the initial fear in his eyes that had gradually turned to anger, an anger that Keeva now admitted was justified since she had withheld one final truth from him, a truth he deserved after everything she had put him through.

But that didn't change the fact that the arrest warrant was supposed to have been taken care of. She had been told that she wouldn't have to worry about it; no cops would be knocking down her door demanding she accompany them downtown because she robbed a small convenience store a few years ago. Circumstances had been horrible back then and after Justin had left her without any finances while he absconded off to the Bahamas with a few friends, she had gotten desperate after two days without food. Her lawyer, Angie, had promised her that she'd made a few calls to some good connections, Keeva's sob story having been a hit with all of them.

"Hmph, so much for that," she muttered against her knee, her eyes falling from the small TV to her foot resting on the floor. She still wore the cast on her leg, and likely would for another month, but her doctor had told her she might not ever walk normally again. The tibia had been shattered in the middle and her fibia broken in two places. A limp was likely inevitable and she found it somehow very fitting with the perfect façade she tried so hard to maintain.

There was a loud clang that startled her from her reverie and she jumped up as the guard began to unlock the cell door.

"Bozeman. You got a visitor."

Nervous energy coursed through her at the thought that it might just be Don coming to visit, to maybe talk a little more about what was going on. Maybe…maybe they could work something out…but as the cell door opened and a man much shorter than Don rounded the corner, Keeva's heart sank deep into her stomach and she sat back down on the bench. Casting a resentful glance at Mac, she then turned away and shrank into the corner again, not anxious to talk with him.

"I uh…I brought your crutches in case you needed them," he began quietly and Keeva heard him rest the two aluminum poles against the wall with a soft thud. She murmured a thanks, but otherwise didn't look at him. "I tried to call Don but he's not answering his phone."

"Can we not talk about him right now?" Keeva asked, hating the sound of her own voice; the smallness of it, how it trembled with emotion. "I'd rather not remember that we were supposed to be married in a month, or that we were going to go to France for our honeymoon, or that he loved me before you decided to arrest me for some petty robbery three years ago."

Now she was looking at him, eyes ablaze with anger at what he'd done, the urge to strike him tingling in her fingertips and it only incited her further when all Mac did was casually slip his hands into his pants' pockets and blink slowly.

"If it had just been a petty robbery I likely wouldn't have brought you in," he said at length, his tone quiet enough that the guard outside couldn't hear. "But your arrest warrant wasn't for that." –he blew out a heavy sigh and collapsed against the cinderblock wall, letting his head drop back. "Your arrest warrant was for murder."


	3. Another Contract

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill. Any names you don't recognize are probably mine, the rest, alas, are not.

**A/N:** A short chappie today but only because I'm focusing more on the next one. Some serious relationships shift after what happens here so stay tuned :-)

The large study that was nestled discreetly in the rear of the large home reeked of a business man, its walls paneled with a rich mahogany and adorned with shelves that displayed various expensive trinkets. One that stood out in particular was a globe on the desk that was trimmed in gold and encrusted with twinkling jewels that marked important landmarks, and Allister Bozeman was reclining nearby it with all his attention focused. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, he pressed the pad of his index finger against the sapphire ocean and pushed, sending the globe spinning lazily on its axis.

On the other side of the desk a young man sat languidly in a leather wingback chair and seemingly unaware of Allister's presence, or the disturbance he was causing with the globe. Despite having been the one to knock at the study door fifteen minutes prior, the young man hadn't had much to say since entering and taking his seat, and Allister was quickly growing tired of the seemingly pointless intrusion.

"I received a phone call yesterday," Allister spoke at length, casting a sideways glance at the young man and wondering if he would look up. His son, Nathan, danced to a very different drummer than the rest of the world and often times it was difficult to engage him in any form of conversation other than requesting his professional services. Relief rushed through him when Nathan looked up, and he continued with a little more confidence. "It was my lawyer. He tells me that Keeva is working up the nerve to sing a little song."

Nathan straightened his glasses, blinking slowly. "In exchange for a shorter sentence, no doubt? Really, Father, this game you're playing with her is quite childish. Why not just be content with the panic you've caused and drop the charges?"

Sitting up in his chair, Allister smiled with an amused laugh, finding a kind of irony in the whole situation. "Perhaps in any other situation I would be, however…" -Allister turned to face Nathan directly. "The fact that Detective Flack is still alive presents a great dilemma for me. I expected him to be dead in order to keep Keeva quiet. With him still walking around she might just go through with it."

There was a thick silence as Nathan readjusted his sitting position and for a fleeting moment, Allister thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in his boy's eyes. The man with no emotions had a weakness after all. "Keeva knows better. She won't talk."

"I'm not so sure about that," Allister added quickly, pointing a finger at him. "She's turning her life around, sweeping out dusty closets with our skeletons in them. Who's to say she won't give us all up just to stay out of jail?"

"There's no incriminating evidence against Keeva and you know it." Nathan spat, sitting up in his chair. He then breathed deep, composed himself. "Think about what you're saying, Allister."

"I have. In fact, it's been on my mind since Keeva left last year. She knows too much. I was content to let her go but now..." -he leaned back in his chair and wove his fingers together over his stomach. "No. She must be taken care of, and that cop, who you were supposed to have killed over a month ago."

Nathan stood up to leave, barely making it to the door when his father stopped him with feigned paternal caring.

"You've fallen out of my good graces once, Nathan," he said, reminding him of the complicated charade he had concocted to fake his death months ago, a charade that would have worked if it hadn't been for Detective Flack. "Don't disappoint me again."

Without answering him, Nathan slipped out the door and strode determinately down the narrow hallway to the front foyer, the decision made that this would be the last time he would step foot in his father's house again. Pausing only a moment, his hand on the door handle, he looked at the waist-high table against the wall where a cluster of pictures sat collecting dust. Swiping the one on the end, Nathan jerked the door open and left.


	4. Misery

**Disclaimer:** I own no one but Keeva.

**A/N:** This chapter, and the next one for that matter, is a bit raw but I think we all agree that Don is probably feeling a bit raw from all that's happened :-) As always, enjoy.

_Misery_.

Wasn't that a book he'd read once? He wasn't sure anymore, only sure that the lone word was enough to describe everything that was happening, everything that he was feeling, and the more the word repeated in his head, the more he actually began to remember the plot of the book; a kidnapped writer held hostage by some psychotic frumpy nurse riddled with horrors of sadistic torture. After all, that was what it was about wasn't it? Torture, and in the worst way, and for one long endless moment Keeva's name wasn't Keeva anymore but replaced by an uglier, more horrifying Annie.

Only he couldn't think of her like that. He couldn't bring himself to blame her for the blatant deception, the lies to make herself feel better or, more realistically, to cover her tracks that Don would conveniently overlook because he loved her. New York City as his witness he loved her so much he hated her, hated her so much his heart ached because he knew...he knew he had simply been a means to an end. A pawn. A once damn fine cop who suddenly had shit for brains because a girl with pretty eyes blinked at him, told him he made her quiver as she lured him to bed and made him feel like the world wasn't so bad after all.

That had been the torture. The sparkling lies, the heated lust, the butterflies he'd swallowed as he'd run a thick index finger over the crisp diamond just only one week ago. Everything had been planned perfectly with his weekend vacation and the small cabin on the water, and then she had wielded the axe and taken him down, piece by bloody piece.

"_Mac wants me to roll over on Daddy, give the D.A. the inside scoop because of how involved I was…no, how involved I am, but he hasn't officially charged me yet. I was stupid to think I would ever be rid of the family…I'm sorry…I should've told you about the robbery…"_

Only it hadn't been robbery; it had been murder and the irony of the lie was almost enough to make him laugh. But the laugh never came, nor did he think it ever would and Keeva's words rolled over and over inside of him like a dryer on overload and forcing him to wonder how the hell he could let her deceive him so easily, so guiltlessly. Sure she had apologized, sworn that if she'd told the truth (kinda like she'd sworn she loved him) they'd kill her and her little dog too.

_That's right, Donnie, yuk it up now with Oz jokes because Heaven knows you'll be too shitfaced later to feel like laughing. Who are you kidding? You'll be too busy yacking over a toilet to even think of cracking another joke_.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Don saw with shocking clarity the ring dance wildly over the floor and knock against the cinder block wall, a hollow _tink tink tink_ resounding in the deathly quiet room. He saw Keeva huddled in the corner, that ghastly blue sweater wrapped around her tightly and her eyes downcast but not daring to look at the shiny, platinum ring. As she had stood there, hovering between the two sections of wall, Don had felt an unsatisfying sense of power over her. He could strike her. One quick flick of his wrist and the back of his hand could crimson the skin of her cheek, maybe even split her lip on one of her teeth and reopen the scar already there from Justin's little love pat.

But Don wasn't that guy, nor would he ever be, and even thinking that the option was remotely plausible made him sick at himself. The urge to be the frumpy nurse had passed almost as quickly as it had come along, and he had simply stared at her, chest heaving, stomach churning. That's when he'd left. That's when it wasn't just torture anymore but sadistic torture. Ten minutes later with shards of glass in his hand, blood spotting the linoleum floor of the commissioner's office as he clenched and unclenched his fingers, they took his badge, his gun, his passion, the only thing he had ever known.

Disciplinary hearing. Right. He'd scoffed at the words even as the commissioner had said them. Don wasn't stupid, and them taking his badge now was more than a formality. It was a message. Don't mess up, kiddo. This is, oh excuse me, this _was_ your only chance.

Downing one last shot he looked at his watch groggily, the alcohol already making him woozy, and he staggered up from his chair. Midnight. Keeva was probably home by now, getting her things together, getting ready to skip town with the help of, who? That's right. Detective Don Flack, hardass cop but pushover lover that had purchased a plane ticket for her and left it in her messenger bag where she was sure to see.

Jingling his keys a moment, staring at the blurred teeth with an odd kind of intensity, he thought better of taking his car and staggered outside just as his cell phone rang. It was Mac, the last person on the entire planet he wanted to speak with but he answered it anyway, figuring he could get in a few cheap shots for kicks only once he said hello, his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Mac had news that it wasn't murder, that her father was just sending Keeva a message but Don found that he hadn't the strength to answer him. Closing the phone, he hailed a cab and instructed the hack to head for her apartment.


	5. Unspoken Forgiveness

**Disclaimer:** As usual...just Keeva, not Donnie...

The light clicked on to cast a harsh white over an empty apartment and Keeva blinked once, twice at the lack of decor. She wasn't exactly surprised or upset, after all that was the deal wasn't it? If she got out then she was out, but her acceptance of the idea was before her father had decided to play games with her; charge her with murder then miraculously make everything go away, and she had known even as Mac was releasing her that she was being set up for something. Somewhere in the back of her mind where horrifying nightmares lurked, Keeva knew she was a loose end, a loose end that had sung like a canary, and that one day Don might just find her with a bullet hole through her eye and floating in the East River.

Letting heave a sigh of resignation, she chucked her keys on the counter and assessed the damage further. Most of the kitchen was largely untouched aside from the soda spilled on the yellowed faux tile but it was the living room that was naked. A broken lamp over where the sofa used to sit against the wall made Keeva ill to look at shattered over the floor. It was her Tiffany lamp her mother had bought her on her birthday and she assumed that was why they had purposely knocked it over. Sentimental things hurt worse broken, not stolen.

Slowly, Keeva made her way in to the bedroom where a bare mattress sat askew from its box springs on the floor and scattered around it were forgotten articles of clothing. Sifting through them she managed to salvage a few designer blouses...and then she saw it. Lying in a crumpled heap by the closet was Don's leather jacket and once she scaled the room to reach it she gathered the material in her arms carefully as though it would crumble to ash and flutter away with the next hollow breeze.

The lining still smelled of his cologne, that musky, almost old spice smell that always made her lean in a little closer and take a deeper breath. Running her finger over the silk she snagged a tear where his gun always rested on the nights they went out late, not wanting to be caught off guard by anyone and she had known exactly what he was referring to. The lie he innocently believed as truth, the ex-boyfriend who was not so ex-anything until his arrest and now Don was scarred by ugly honesty, caught between two choices he should never have had to make.

Keeva lowered his jacket to the floor, absently watching a teardrop splatter against the soft leather before standing back up and taking one long glance around the bedroom as though her possessions still decorated the walls. Everything. They had taken everything and now she was left with a ratty messenger bag filled with useless notes and one plane ticket to the furthest place south on the map. A new start perhaps? A decent job, honest pay where no one could accuse her of anything, yet as she stood in the middle of her own dying fire, running was the last thing she wanted to do and there wasn't a more obvious reason for her hesitation than Don Flack.

And isn't that just a swift kick in the rear, she thought, shuffling back out to the living area to a small linen closet and praying they hadn't taken the quilt she had. Opening the door revealed they hadn't bothered to check and she gratefully pulled out the quilt and toted it back to the bed. Just as she began to unfold it, delusions of a wonderful sleep in her mind, there was a knock at the door and she sighed heavily.

It was likely Nathan, and Keeva dabbed at her eyes at a vain attempt to make herself presentable. Her brother didn't care what you looked like, if you had all your affairs in order, or if you were his twin sister and Keeva had always known that the last face she'd see would be Nathan's; just because she was family didn't put her beyond the needs of his employers.

What was that line in _The Mummy_ she had laughed at once?

"Bad guys always get their come-uppens...always."

"Is that really what I am?" she murmured to herself as she reached for the doorknob, keys to her motorcycle in hand and ready to hand the little Honda over to him. "A bad guy? Are they really going to be cloroxing my brains off the grungy floors of this apartment?"

But when she opened the door she didn't see the unassuming pleasant face of Nathan Bozeman but rather the taffy-pulled frame of Don, his arm resting above his head on the door frame, and his head leaning in to the upward slope of his shoulder. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his cheeks shimmered from a streak of tears in the yellow light of the hallway.

With a heavy sniff and a slow drag of his sleeve beneath his nose, Don finally acknowledged her with a nod. "I uh…I took two shots trying to hate you," he said, shaking an index finger at her and swaying forward a little. "Then...then I took two shots trying to forget you."

He stood straight and wobbled slightly before regaining himself then looked directly at her. "And then? Well, then I had an untold number of beers falling in love with you all over again, because there's just something about you, Keeva."

A laugh escaped him, sad and strained and full of the same pain he'd had in the interrogation room. "Funny, isn't it? The irony of betrayal, how your love becomes hate simply because you love someone so much."

"Donnie, go home," she said sadly, leaning against the door. If he wanted to unload his anger then he needed to call Danny or Hawkes or someone who wouldn"t crack in two when Don finally started to cry. "Don't do this to me. Not now."

He stumbled past her with a morbid laugh, nodding his head as he threw his weight against the kitchen counter. "Oh so now it's about you? I think I deserve a little more than that, Keeva, hell. After all, you're the one who blind-sighted me with your little white lies and now? Now I'm left with nothing."

Now the argument had truly begun. Now he'd crossed the selfish line and Keeva wasn't going to let him ruin what little pride she had left.

"Nothing?" she demanded, slamming the door and stalking over to him. "Nothing? Don, look around you. Daddy's taken my life; he's taken everything from me! How dare you stand there and –"

"They took my badge, Keeva!" he shouted angrily, grabbing the glass that was on the counter and throwing it against the opposite wall. It shattered upon impact, the sound causing Keeva to jump. "My badge...the only thing I've ever been any good at."

At that they silenced, both not knowing what to say to one another until Don swayed forward, dangerously close to falling flat on his face. Gently, as though nothing had changed between them, Keeva took him by the arm.

"Come on," she said quietly, leading him in to the bedroom and sitting him on the bed. Silently, she tugged his coat free and let it fall to the floor before moving to his tie, loosening it and slipping it over his head. Her next move was to make him lie down but Don stopped her, grabbing her wrist as she had pressed her hand to his shoulder, and he looked up at her, the anger no longer in his eyes. It was replaced by the longing to have her just one more night...

"Just for now, for one more night…I have to say goodbye," he whispered, pulling her down to sit on his lap and he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, hiding his tears from her as she hugged him.

"Donnie," she said against his ear, her voice matching his own as she struggled to hide her own tears. "It wasn't a lie, not really. I just never wanted-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he cut across her, shaking his head and looking up into her eyes. "I don't want to remember…"

Without another word spoken between them, the two disappeared beneath the covers, a tangle of swaying branches in the harsh storm swirling around them.


	6. Midnight Intrusion

**Dislcaimer:** I own Keeva and Nathan but no one else.

**A/N:** As much as I appreciate those readers who have stuck with me thus far, I'm afraid that this is going to be the last installment of this story for a while unless I get a little more feedback. I'm afraid without a little more encouragement, I've sort of focused my attention on other projects.

The apartment was already emptied down to the wall hangings their father had gifted Keeva upon her moving in and an odd pang struck Nathan's chest at the finality of it all. This time Keeva had to disappear for good, and he would never see her again and for what? Desperate self-preservation? As it was, Nathan had always taken a kind of solace in the fact that he could pop in and see her when he wanted, even if it was for no other reason than to steal a plate of food from her and reassure what little faith he had in mankind. This time, however, there was no scent of fresh spices or steaming vegetables, or the smell of her burning candles and Nathan had the urge to leave, trying to tell himself that he was in the wrong apartment.

Moments later he was in the darkened bedroom listening to the sounds of their breathing and watching them as they slept within one another's arms, dreams untouched by circumstance. When the two had first met, Nathan had wondered how such opposites could stay attracted to one another, and when Keeva had announced her love with such fervor in the middle of his living room he had doubted it was true. However, as he looked upon them now there was no question, adding to his urge to leave as soon as possible. He was a stranger, an intruder upon a sacred bond and he didn't belong

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice was quiet and cutting in the silence and Nathan almost winced at her tone. Not once had Keeva spoken to him in such a way and he knew the family she had once held dear was now dead. Not only had her brother's silence betrayed her, but her father's will to destroy any threat to him had nearly cost her the love she so deserved and desired, yet Nathan found no words of comfort for her.

"Can we talk?" he asked just as quietly. Keeva looked at Don a long moment before grabbing his dress shirt from the floor nearby and shooing Nathan from the room. A minute later she met him in the kitchen but didn't look at him even as she offered to brew him some coffee, and her cool attitude towards him was an entirely new sensation. Was that remorse he felt? Was it guilt?

"Or there's some of Dad's whisky and ale in the cabinet if they haven't taken it."

There was acid in her tone so Nathan said nothing as he watched her rummage aimlessly around the kitchen with nervous energy, her limp worse than when he'd watched her leave the precinct a few hours before and somehow that made his next sentence that much harder to say.

"I spoke with Father," he said at length. Beating around the bush was something he never did and he knew that present circumstances were no excuse to start. "He's requested with colorful vocabulary that I finish off your fiancée. That and he's taken out another contract."

"Daddy's been busy," Keeva said, her eyes now fixed on the bedroom door as though Flack would walk through it at any moment. "Quite frankly I'm surprised that you haven't already gone through with it; I didn't think anyone was within Nathan's safety zone."

Her whole body shuddered and a single tear slipped from each eye as she finally looked at him. "Are you here to kill me?"

There was a heavy silence as the two stared at each other, neither moving until that unfamiliar pang forced Nathan to reach into his coat pocket and grab his wallet. In it he kept a healthy supply of ones and twenties, and a few Benjamins for emergencies, and Keeva watched him as he placed a varied selection of the bills on the bar between them.

"I want you to take this money wherever it is you plan to go and I want you to disappear completely. Set up an account there and I'll provide money for you, never mind how."

"And Donnie," she whispered, touching the money lightly with her fingertips. "You'll look after him? Keep him safe?"

Nathan licked his lips and thought about her request, wondering if he could truly make such a promise to her. Most of his life had consisted of target practice and poker faces, and deceiving his marks at all costs. The only thing he had ever promised anyone was a quick death. Never once had he promised life, not even when he had informed Flack of the contract on his head. That was a mere prolonging of the inevitable, but as he met Keeva's eyes, their emerald green shimmering with tears, Nathan buckled for reasons he did not yet know.

"As long as I draw breath Detective Don Flack will live," he said quietly, looking away from her as she crossed the kitchen to stand directly in front of him.

"I have to know," she said, taking his hand and for the first time he didn't pull away. "Did you come here to kill us tonight?"

Nathan didn't answer, couldn't answer because for some reason the truth no longer held any value for him. His infallible truth had suddenly betrayed everything Nathan had ever believed in where the world was simply black and white, nothing more. What mattered now was her survival.

"Take the money," he said, straightening his jacket and the beanie that covered his well-groomed mop of curls. "I'll send you more when I can."

And then he was gone, leaving Keeva with nothing more than a memory.


	7. A Mouth Full of Feathers

**Disclaimer:** Just Keeva and Nathan belong to me. Sadly, Flack does not.

**A/N:** Well, I had this chapter lying around and so I tweaked it a little and decided to add it. Let me know what you think because I'm not entirely sure this chapter is going to stay. There's two different versions and this one was the first that I wrote.

The morning came early as Don rolled over, his head aching to the point his stomach did loops and he quickly scrambled to the side of the bed and heaved what liquor was still sitting in his stomach onto the floor. He coughed and spit and heaved again, knowing it wasn't entirely the hangover that was making him ill.

Finally feeling empty, he sat up and wiped his mouth with the quilt lying next to him, looking around to see if Keeva had decided to stick around after all. The bed was otherwise empty, the closet as well, and his leather jacket that he would never remember he'd left in her care was gone from the floor. A cold morning had brought her in to his life and now had taken her back out as though she were nothing more than a dream.

"Shit," he grumbled slowly, rubbing at his head. He reached for his coat on the floor, sticking a hand in the deep pocket to pull out an amber vial of pills only to be disappointed that they weren't there anymore. Careful not to put any undue stress on his headache, Don sluggishly got to his feet and staggered over to where his jeans lay, and just as he was about to slip them on, the pocket buzzed loudly. He almost had a mind to throw the damn phone out the window.

Digging around for the phone a moment, Don finally tugged it free of the cloth and answered it, more out of habit than really wanting to, and in one motion he flopped to the floor and fell back, letting his head thump against the cheap carpet.

"Flack?" It was Lindsay, frantic and worried and he almost found it in himself to be flattered. "Flack where are you? I've been trying to reach you all morning."

"I'm in the tenth level of hell watching my pride burn away to nothing," he said. His tone wasn't exactly sarcastic but Lindsay wouldn't have noticed anyway.

"Would you get your ass down here? There's something you need to see."

"Ohhh, Monroe," he groaned, rolling over and pressing his fevered face against the cool carpet. "I'm still drunk from last night and in case you've been living under a rock, they took my badge yesterday."

But Lindsay wouldn't let up, telling him she'd send a patrol car if she had to and embarrass him further, so he hung up on her, immediately feeling like an asshole. _Flack, what are you doing? You're spiraling and trying to take everyone with you._

Woozy, Don lumbered to his feet and wondered through a fog what was so important that she felt the need to call him knowing full well that he wouldn't be a cop much longer. The word suspension was all too often a synonym for fired and he knew that with his recent history with the chief, his chances of being reinstated looked very bleak.

After venturing into the kitchen to splash some cold water onto his face, Don stuck his hands into his coat pockets as he headed for the door and he felt the cold plastic of his prescription bottle brush against his knuckles. It was the spare refill he'd kept and had forgotten about, vaguely remembering thinking when he'd gotten it filled how he might just need it when he was out and his chest pain flared up.

Pulling it out he shook it a moment, listening to the familiar click of pills inside before opening the cap and shaking two pills loose. Looking at them he debated using them, wondering what his true motive was for the second time in over a week. He had promised Danny that he would dump all the remaining pills that he had, but the last two months he had started to get the shakes when he missed a dose and he had begun to take them for stress, loving the way they took the edge off and today? Well, today certainly fell under the category of stress.

Popping both dry he left the apartment for the last time and headed out to hail a cab. Better get to Lindsay before a patrol car managed to find him.

Monroe said nothing of their phone conversation as Don approached her thirty minutes later. Looking at him with dark eyes, she watched him tuck a cough drop against his cheek before finally telling him to follow her.

"Come on, Monroe, why the cloak and dagger mess?" he grunted, following her lead down the roped off sidewalk, his teeth clacking as he pushed the candied medicine around in his mouth. "I've got a –"

"Would you just shut up?" she snapped, whirling to face him. "If you're so anxious to know then here. Here's why I called you."

Flack almost didn't recognize the woman lying slouched against the closed door of the pastry shop, her hair a tangled mess, her clothes ripped and ruined. A gunshot wound marred her forehead with an almost perfect circle, and the blood had dribbled down her nose and cheek and dried in the awkward shape of a snake. The finishing touch was a bundle of black feathers stuffed in her mouth, and the rest of her blood splattered all over the glass behind her.

"I didn't want you to see her picture on the evening news," Lindsay said quietly and Don looked at her blankly, still disbelieving.

"No...her plane left three hours ago," he argued, looking at his watch. "She should be halfway over the Atlantic by now."

Silently, Lindsay handed him an evidence bag and he studied it dumbly, almost unable to recognize what was inside, but he knew she'd never gotten on that plane. In the bag was her boarding pass with the seven a.m. departure time printed clearly beneath the destination.

"Coroner places TOD around five this morning," she went on but Don wasn't listening, wasn't even feeling. He was thinking about Nathan, the one man that everyone denied existing except Keeva, his sister that he had no qualms about silencing. Keeva had rolled on him and at least a dozen others before the questioning detectives had finally let her go and Nathan made sure she would never testify.

A foot away from them Danny had ducked under the crime scene tape and was now looking at Flack intently, the anger burning in his own eyes and Don saw that his knuckles were bloodied. With no other way to vent, the brick building across the street had gotten the brunt of Danny's wrath, the young CSI knowing all he could do was process evidence and nothing more. Keeva had become as much a part of his life as she had Don's, and whoever had done this was going to pay one way or the other.

"We'll get him, Donnie," Messer said with a nod, his brow furrowed and lips a tight line, and Flack nodded absently, not really hearing him. She was gone...Keeva was really gone...

"Flack? Flack wait!" Lindsay called after him as he turned and stalked off, but he didn't heed her command. He may not have had a badge anymore but he was still a cop and he was going to find this ghost no matter what it took.

Nathan was dead.


	8. Care For a Smoke?

**A/N:** Welcome back faithful readers! Apologies that this chapter is so late in coming, but I was recently inspired when I saw an old episode of CSI:NY the other day and decided it was high time to post again. Hope you like :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anybody 'cept Nathan, and I hope you know the rest of the drill :)

THREE MONTHS LATER

Looking through the two way mirror at Don, Mac's memory was rewound about six years to when he'd first met the young detective. Don had been just as cocky then as he was most days now, and upon their meeting Mac had found something in him that he hadn't been able to identify until the uniform had shoved Don into the interrogation room. It didn't matter how well Mac knew him, he always managed to surprise him with the tiniest detail, and while this detail wasn't exactly tiny, it qualified as something completely out of left field.

Don was sitting at the table and reclined in his chair, one long, lanky leg bouncing up and down as his fingers drummed rapidly on his thigh. The knees of his Levi's were torn and stained with blood from deep gashes that had been opened in his skin, and he scratched every few minutes at them with the other hand, swapping between the cuts and at his thick mop of dark hair. Over the last few months Don had let it grow back out, along with his sideburns and a healthy tuft of scruff that was collecting along his jaw, aging him about five years, and Mac noticed a perfect white streak had sprouted from his part. Just watching Don shift uncomfortably, watching his appearance slowly deteriorate made Mac want to launch himself through the glass and shake the kid's shoulders.

"Do you think he's responsible?" Stella asked from beside him, and Mac felt her hand close around his wrist. He looked at her, tried to smile but it fell into a sort of grimace and he gave up, looking back through the glass.

"For making a few bad decisions, perhaps, but not murder," he said quietly just as Don shifted again only this time with a cough. Even as he said it he was ashamed to find that he didn't really believe his own reassurance. All the evidence they had collected was, at best, ambiguous, neither clearing Don's guilt or cementing it, and his actions of late hadn't endeared him to the NYPD and betrayed all the belief and trust that Mac had developed in Flack after all these years of working with him. When Stella finally looked at him, Mac couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes and instead studied his scuffed boots before finally speaking again. "I'm going to talk to him before Dougan gets here, try and get something out of him."

A moment later he found himself leaning against the door and turning a carton of Marlboro Reds over in his hand, staring intently at Don. It was the kind of expression that Don hated for it always made him feel as though he'd gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and with Mac's next words he felt as though both hands had been caught and subsequently slapped.

"Care for a smoke?"

Mac's tone was almost casual as he turned the pack over in his hands a few more times. He then tossed it on to the table and watched as Don shook a cigarette free, finally letting himself chew on the idea that Flack was truly capable of taking a life in cold blood. On his dark tee shirt was a thick smattering of dark blood that had dried into an odd purple color, and his fingernails were dirty with blood and grime and Mac shook his head slightly to rid himself of his doubt.

"Listen, Flack. I don't expect you to incriminate yourself here but you better give me something to take to the D.A. about what happened, and I can guarantee you that what you give me will be presented a lot more positively than if you give it to Dougan."

Don said nothing for a long moment as he lit his cigarette. Acrid, brown smoke immediately filled the room when he exhaled but it seemed to have taken away a lot of his discomfort as Mac suspected it would.

"I've nothing to give you," he said at last, taking another drag and avoiding Mac's eyes. "All I can tell you is that I didn't kill Bozeman. In fact, I tried to save him." –he held up his hands where streaks of blood were stenciled over his palms.

"Then who killed him?"

"Like I told the arresting officer, I don't know. I just found the body."

He was lying, but he was pulling it off well enough that Mac couldn't be entirely sure and was forced to default to his next question.

"Then why were you there to begin with? Had you talked with him before-hand?"

Don leaned forward onto the table and shook his head, almost grinning. Thin tendrils of smoke snaked from his nose in the silence, and he finally locked eyes with his long-time mentor, the truth suddenly between them. Flack hadn't been alone when he went to chat up Allister Bozeman, and his smile was in the irony of misjudging the man who had accompanied him. After tapping gently on the mirror, Mac then took a seat in front of Don in order to hide his face from view and said quietly:

"Nathan."

With a nod, Don took another long drag on his cigarette and glanced at the door. "I told him I wanted to speak with Bozeman, and Nathan arranged a meeting place. He went with me, told me I needed backup since I no longer had a badge and I agreed since he wanted to find out who killed Keeva as much as I do."

"So why not give him up? He's a contract killer, Flack, and in case you've forgotten he's accepted a contract on your head."

Flack shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him as he tapped the ashes from the tip of his cigarette. "Didn't you notice? No feathers. No coins. Just like Keeva, his M.O. was lacking, and before you ask, no. I didn't tamper with anything."

"I know you better than that," Mac muttered lamely, running a hand over his short-cropped hair but he looked up abruptly when Don scoffed.

"You do? Could've fooled me. If you believed I didn't kill him you wouldn't even be in here talking to me right now. You'd be convincing Dougan to let me go until all of the evidence has been processed."

"That's not true, and you know it," Mac defended quickly just as the door opened with a heavy bang and Detective Dougan stepped inside. He was chewing languidly on a toothpick with a grin to rival the Cheshire Cat and standing directly behind him was a short, red-headed CSI that Mac didn't recognize. Immediately, Flack shut his mouth and stamped out his cigarette, leaning back in his chair and looking from Dougan to the CSI, and Mac noticed his gaze linger on the scientist just before his eyes flickered to Mac.

"Detective Taylor, so good to see you out of your cubby hole," Dougan greeted, his rotund belly preceding him as he stepped further into the room, and the CSI that accompanied him quickly made his way over to Don in order to process his clothing. Mac watched him a moment as he unpacked his silver kit but his process was flawless. First the gloves, then setting up the materials in order to check for GSR, swab blood, and take various other samples, but he couldn't shake Flack's reaction, wanting to laugh at the ridiculous thought that sprang into his head.

No…Nathan wouldn't be stupid enough to walk into the lion's den…would he? And for what purpose? Bozeman was dead, whether he killed him or not, and collecting on a contract in the middle of a police precinct was suicide…unless, of course, that was the plan. It wouldn't have been the first time Nathan had died, but before Mac could figure out a plan of action, Dougan fell to the floor unconscious, and Nathan was at the door turning the lock.

"Tell Stella behind the glass not to call for backup," he said, pointing Dougan's gun at him, and when Mac didn't move, Nathan aimed the gun at his knee. "Do it now or I will put you in a wheelchair."

Mac cut his eyes at the mirror and shook his head.

"Now listen. I've no interest in clearing my name of my father's death. You want to blame me then fine. I was months away from killing the bastard anyway, but my sister…I did not kill my sister and I intend to prove that, but I can't do it without Detective Flack. Release him, and I promise you that once this is all over, I will allow you to handcuff me yourself."

"Just like that," Mac said, meeting Nathan's eyes and he immediately wished he hadn't. They were hollow and soulless, two black pits of nothingness.

"Just like that," Nathan agreed and with his free hand he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a perfect black feather. He then slid it across the table toward Mac. "My word is stone, Detective Taylor. I do not make empty promises and this feather represents that. Take it, and our agreement will be as such."

Mac shook his head and looked at Don, only he was no longer sitting at the table or even in the room. The window was open, and within seconds Nathan was up and out, following a predetermined escape route. By the time Mac reached the window Nathan was gone, the only evidence of his presence the black feather lying on the table.


	9. Italian Boots and Fake Tattoos

**Dislcaimer:** Nathan is mine, all mine :) But sadly, not Flack

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the kind review, minimorgan. It was just the push I needed to put my next chapter to paper :) I hope to have another chapter up by the end of the week, so please check back my faithful readers, and as always, please enjoy :)

A quick stop at a clothing boutique bought Don a new pair of jeans and a multi-layer polo shirt, along with an expensive pair of Italian leather boots that Nathan insisted on purchasing, simply because Don's fellow brothers in blue would be searching for him with less flashy attire. It felt odd watching Nathan through the broad shopping windows as the assassin handed over a credit card to buy the clothes, Flack knowing that the money buying his disguise was awarded over the cold, lifeless bodies of the hits Nathan had been contracted for over the years. As soon as all this was over, Don vowed to burn the clothes and the four hundred dollar pair of boots.

Presently, however, there were more important things to worry about than blood money being passed around; the two had no place to go now that Don's apartment was currently being searched by Dougan's crack team of swing-shift CSIs. After his little escapade out the interrogation room window, Mac and the others had been banned from any sort of investigation into both Bozeman murders, but that hadn't kept them from trying. Every hour or so Danny called his cell phone and minutes after that, Stella would send him a text message pleading for him to return, but he couldn't. Not now, not when he was so deep that the next step to take would likely drown him. No, his only option now was see this through to the end, even if it killed him.

"I spoke with Patrick O'Malley," Nathan said as he climbed into the car, startling Don from his dark reverie, and he looked at the former detective intently as he passed him the large bag of clothing. "He was once Allister's right hand man before he made the mistake of siphoning a few thousand dollars out of the family's safe. He tells me that a mutual acquaintance in Queens has been shooting his mouth off about a particular Bozeman murder. You might remember him, a one Justin Taylor."

"Justin? You mean that bastard's out of jail?" Don demanded as he peeled off his bloody tee shirt and swapped it out for the polo inside the bag.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Nathan asked, as he began to busy himself with an unassuming pocket knife and a whet stone while Don changed clothes. "Allister gets him out of jail, and now he's claiming responsibility for his murder. I suppose that's why I have never been one for politics, but that is beside the point. While I'm inclined to believe that Justin had nothing to do with the murder, if nothing else, I want to see him to silence him. The man has been a thorn in my side ever since Keeva started seeing him."

Just hearing her name was painful and Don winced noticeably as he stuffed his large feet inside the boots, and he quickly changed the subject, though if Nathan noticed, he said nothing.

"So with your father gone, do you inherit the business?" he asked as he sat back and watched Nathan sharpen the knife. He drew it across the whet stone skillfully, twisting his wrist at just the right angle to reveal that too many hours had been spent honing such a skill, and he glanced at Flack.

"Custom would dictate as such, though no. I denied my birthright when I turned eighteen, shortly after accepting my first contract. It was then that I decided that whisky and criminal politics was not, as many say, my cup of tea. As odd as it may sound to you, Detective, I find lying and cheating loathsome."

Reaching across the seat, Nathan picked up the shopping bag and dumped out the remainder of the contents onto Flack's lap: a pair of fake reading glasses, a magnetic silver hoop earring, a sleeve of fake tattoos, and a few rings that were simple bands. He then proceeded to add the various accessories to various places without saying so much as an "excuse me for invading your personal bubble," and it was all Don could do to keep from swatting him away. Two splashes of cold water later, Flack had a tribal tattoo on the inside of his left forearm and an ankh on his neck just above his collarbone, an image in the mirror he would never get used to.

"The only one who stands to gain anything now is someone who is brave enough to step forward. My guess is that it will be the woman recently engaged to Allister, though finding her will be quite the challenge," Nathan went on as he tucked the pocket knife away, along with the receipt from the clothing store before gathering up Don's bloodied clothes and stuffing them inside the large bag and dropping it once again into Don's lap. He then started the car and began to pull away from the curb. "I'll be driving over Queensborough Bridge; you would be wise to toss the bag over the side as we cross the water."

The two maneuvered Manhattan Island, passing by Bottom's Up Bar and a darkened Stinger's Café despite the still-early hour, and Flack pressed his hand to the glass, thinking how far away all of that seemed now. It had been nearly eight months since he had happened upon an argument between a hack and a pretty young girl at that very stop light, but to him it was much longer and when he closed his eyes, Don could see her perfect ringlets bouncing around her face, brightening her entire demeanor.

_He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips and let his eyes roam freely over her, burning every feature of her face into his memory and longing for just one more moment, one more chance to feel her warm, full lips touch his own. "I'm sorry, Keeva. I'm so sorry…"_

_Her mouth moved silently as she covered his hand with her own, her palm soft and comforting, and Don felt his chest clench so painfully he wanted to cry out. Anything…he would give anything to hear her voice, feel her breath, her mouth…_

"Detective," Nathan said abruptly, rolling down the window and a blast of chilly air tore him away from his unpleasant daydream and to the present. They were now over the Queensborough Bridge and the water was passing by rapidly below them. Doing as previously instructed, Flack picked up the shopping bag and heaved it over the railing where it was lost in the depths of the East River.


	10. Dusk

**Disclaimer:** Oh, the usual...

**H**our thirty without so much as a wink of sleep hit him hard as nightfall came. The city lights were mesmerizing as they passed by in rhythmic succession; the blur of people still milling about oddly calming, but Flack kept awake knowing they would be at Allister's home soon. According to O'Malley, Justin had started to camp out in the late Mr. Bozeman's office giving orders on behalf of an unknown entity who was currently being referred to as "Dusk." Flack had thought it a bit lame; the whole masked villain thing was getting pretty old lately, but either way they had to look into it. Intuition said that whoever snuffed Keeva and Bozeman was the person behind "Dusk" and if they found him, then a lot of questions were going to get answered one way or another. Flack just wasn't too keen on how Nathan was going to go about getting the information: scare Justin senseless with a loaded gun in his face, and while the man was an arrogant bastard, Flack wasn't exactly looking for another murder to be linked to his already tarnished reputation.

"I see you brought an attack dog with you," Justin said shortly after the two had arrived close to midnight, and he rubbed a broad hand around his neck where he had once sported a bruise for nearly a month. He looked resentfully at Flack who kept his distance by the door of the office. "But I don't suppose either of you came to start a fight."

The sudden grin on his face was nauseating, and Flack clenched his fists to keep from losing his cool.

"Very astute of you, Mr. Taylor," Nathan said, cocking an eyebrow and looking distastefully at Justin as the latter reclined in the office chair and kicked his heels up onto the enormous desk. "In fact, we come seeking information. Mr. O'Malley is of the mind that you are responsible for my father's murder."

"And? You said yourself you were anxious to end his life, anyway. What's it to either of you?" –he folded his hands together and rested them over his stomach, winking at Flack with a little more courage than he'd had five minutes prior. Grinding his teeth together, Flack clenched his fists again and felt his fingernails dig into his palms.

"His death is of no consequence to me, though I don't believe you murdered him." –Nathan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small caliber pistol. "So tell me. Who's paying you?"

Justin's eyes flickered to the gun, but he retained his smile, and shifted in his chair. "No one, Nathan. You know me; I tend to take credit for a lot of things."

"All of which land you in trouble eventually. Who's paying you?"

Nathan then removed a silencer and began to screw it onto the barrel, not once looking up at Justin as he did so. "Please, Mr. Taylor. Don't try my patience. I don't want to ask you again."

The gun was then aimed at his head, shattering Justin's composure, and he scrambled to sit up straight. Various trinkets bounced over the desk and a cup full of pens tipped over loudly, spilling the slender utensils over and onto the floor.

"Woah now wait a minute. What about your code of ethics? No shooting people who aren't on contracts? Right?"

Nathan moved his thumb and pulled the hammer back, and Justin looked desperately at Flack.

_He's gonna kill him, y'know. You might think that Nathan won't do it since you asked him not to, but there aren't many people he listens to anymore._

Flack glanced around the room before finally spotting a familiar figure leaning against the bookcase, her arms crossed as she stared at Justin floundering in the face of death. Draped loosely over her was Don's leather jacket, its hem barely clearing her knees, and he was suddenly struck with the memory of her putting it on the day they attended the Phantom. She had clipped his handcuffs to the waistband of her underwear and hung his badge around her neck, smiling coyly from where she had stood at the closet.

_You're not real._

_Of course I'm not real, silly. I'm here merely as a personification. Why else would I be wearing your jacket and a pair of bikini underwear?_

She unfolded her arms and stretched them, finally looking at Flack and her eyes were the same perfect, emerald green that he remembered on that chilly morning in her apartment. Thinking of it now brought another wave of anger over him; the whole reason he had shown up that morning was because of Justin, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to stop Nathan from doing anything ridiculous. Smiling, Keeva hopped off the table and propped her hands up on her hips, cocking her left hip slightly as she did so.

_I know. I never liked psychology, either, but you should know that Justin doesn't matter, whether or not Nathan decides to kill him. Alive, dead, who cares? What matters is Dusk._

_But neither of us knows who that is._

_Oh? First left, then right; the windows are dark without the light. Surely you've figured it out by now. Who else would have all the information? Who else would know about Nathan's calling card other than you and Mac? People may know of it, but not who it belongs to._

_But there's no one._

Keeva's smile widened slightly and she bit her lower lip thoughtfully. _Oh now I doubt you think that. I wouldn't be here otherwise. Remember, Donnie. First left, then right; the windows are dark without the light._

She waved her index finger left, then right, then pointed to the desk alongside the sound of a quiet pop. Flack looked in time to see Justin's entire body jerk back into the chair as he cried out, gripping his shoulder, and Nathan stated flatly, "The next one's in your eye."

"Okay! Okay! A woman contacted me, claimed she was Allister's fiancée. She offered me a big chunk of cash if I played up the murder a little bit and moved in on running the business," Justin explained as his chest heaved rapidly, and his face contorted with pain. His cheeks were now slick with tears, and Flack wanted to laugh at the simple irony of it.

"A name. We need a name, Taylor," Flack said, glancing back at the bookcase, but Keeva was gone as he knew she would be, and his eyes began to burn uncomfortably.

"There isn't a name! Honest! She even offered to pay me more just to keep me from asking questions! Please Nathan. I'm telling the truth!"

An odd silence fell over the office, the only sound that of Justin's labored breathing, and Nathan shifted just enough to throw Flack a glance over his shoulder. His sea-green eyes were empty, hollow, devoid of any type of humanity, but it was obvious he was finished, and while he wasn't asking permission, he was giving Flack the opportunity to make a choice. Drawing in a deep breath, Don looked from Justin to Nathan, then turned and left just as another quiet pop silenced the only sound in the room.


	11. Confronting Demons

**Disclaimer:** The usual...

**A/N:** Thanks so much for your very kind review, x3sunnydaay. I certainly appreciate all the feedback I can get, especially when it's so positive :D. Well, this installment is a touch long this time; so much had to happen all together that it couldn't really be broken up into two chapters, but I think it turned out well. And as always, enjoy!

**B**ottom's Up was still hosting a rowdy crowd as Flack stepped inside. The back corner pool table was oddly free of patrons and making it even easier for his sleep-deprived brain to see ghosted images of the crime lab team he so often played pool with, each of them circling the tale, taking shots, and laughing at a likely corny joke Flack had been known to occasionally tell. He missed the late nights and the bottomless pitchers of beer that made them all forget about the atrocities of the day and wondered if he would ever experience it again after what had happened tonight.

After paying the bartender for the open table and a few unnecessary shots of Jack Daniels, Flack wove his way through loud basketball fans shouting at the game on TV, and he nearly started a riot in the middle of the bar by anonymously rooting for the San Antonio Spurs against the Knicks, dodging a heavy pitcher of beer as it flew past his ear. Reaching the back table, he grabbed a cue stick from the wall, studying it a moment before deciding it would have to do; it was too short for his arms and would make his elbows jut out at awkward angles but it was the longest of the remaining three. Even as he shouldered it he laughed at himself, at the importance of a stupid cue stick as though the last few hours had been nothing more than a quiet chat with an old friend. Once this was all over he was going to go away for awhile, a long while. To Ireland maybe…he'd never been to Ireland. Keeva often said it was beautiful, and with the Gaelic his grandfather had taught him…well, he might just stay there.

"Flack?"

It was Danny in unfamiliar duds as he rounded the corner of the table, and directly behind him was Lindsay in a flattering summer dress, revealing that the two had been out most of the night, and were just winding down the evening with a little pool. It was amazing how much Don suddenly missed those nights out to the theater or to Keeva's favorite Italian restaurant in the Village, and he ached to have her on his arm, her curvy waist tucked perfectly inside a classy evening gown while he wore a kilt that she had easily convinced him to wear with one little pout of her bottom lip. Needless to say he'd spent the entire night at the mercy of Danny's jokes.

But this was an unexpected complication, and Flack felt his shoulders deflate even more. They weren't supposed to be here, not now. After a long drive back from Queens and an even longer conversation with himself, it had all come together and Bottom's Up was to be the hub of expected activity. Money was going to change hands soon, information was going to be silenced, and Flack was planning to be there for every second of it in order to reclaim a little of what had been savagely taken from him nearly three months ago. It was time for answers.

"Geezes, almost didn't recognize you with all those sideburns and shaggy hair," Danny continued, leaning his weight against the rail of the pool table while Flack racked up the balls for a game of Eight Ball he knew wouldn't likely be finished. "Mac said you had changed but I guess…geezes, Flack what are you doing here? If I were on duty, you know I'd have to arrest you."

"Danny, maybe we ought to go," Lindsay added quietly, peering around his shoulder at Don and spying the gun tucked between his belt and hip. She tugged on Messer's shirt sleeve as Don leaned forward and aimed a shot at a side pocket, but Danny didn't move, didn't even blink.

"You know who did it."

The statement was so simple, yet so overwhelming and it seemed that a quiet fell over the entire bar so that the only conversation in the building was that of Keeva's murderer. Don let the lacquered wood of the cue stick slide over his curved thumb a moment before finally following through, and the cue ball clacked loudly against three other balls, sending them in a spray of directions, none of them sinking.

_First left, then right; the windows are dark without the light. Who else would have all the information? Who else would know about Nathan's calling card?_

"Montana's right. You shouldn't be here," Flack said, and his steely eyes darted to the entrance as it opened, three people filing inside. Once they dispersed into the crowd, a fourth person passed in front of the door but didn't exit, and Flack felt his chest clench. They were past the point of no return now; no one was leaving until this played out, good or bad. After reaching into his pocket, Don popped a few Vicodin dry and took a deep breath as he abandoned his game of pool and began to stalk through the many tables to where the previous three patrons had set up shop with another small group.

Messer followed, though against his better judgment, and was immediately met by a tall red-head who bore an uncanny resemblance to Keeva, and the vacancy of expression on his face was enough to make Danny stop short. So that was Nathan, the main topic of conversation around the lab though Messer doubted that the notoriety would've impressed the man all that much.

"You must let him confront his demons, Detective," he said slowly. "The betrayal of a friend slices deep."

"You mean someone we know killed her?"

Nathan motioned with a slight nod in Flack's direction where he now stood facing the small group, his gun gripped tightly in his hand and in the middle of it all was a familiar face that Messer had never expected, never even suspected and he had the sudden urge to make his lips dance with his index finger like in old Looney Tunes skits.

_She glanced left, tapping her index finger in a pattern, once left, once right. "Five years ago, bank heist in Queens…shady kind of guy, real clever…"_

_The two maneuvered Manhattan Island, passing by…a darkened Stinger's Café despite the early hour._

"You had all the cards," Flack said over the roar of the crowd, and it died down slightly with his words. "Right from the beginning you knew how it was all going to play out. When I came to you that night…" –he laughed and stabbed a finger into the air. "Do you even have a son? Or was that all part of it?"

With a smug grin, Angie Morrison leaned all her weight on one leg as she planted her bony hands on her hips. "What? Do you expect an evil villainess monologue? Can't it ever just be about the frickin' money? So I saw an opportunity to move in on the family business. Are you going to arrest me? Because you can't prove it, Donnie, and even if your little detective friend manages to slap cuffs on me, I'll deny everything at the station. All of it will be hearsay, inadmissible in a court of law."

Flack aimed the gun at her, his mouth a tight line and firm resolve in his eyes. He wanted to shoot her. Every muscle in his body itched at the restraint he held over his trigger finger, but he couldn't do it, not until he knew why. Keeva had nothing to do with any of the money. In fact, she hadn't wanted anything to do with the family business at all no matter what happened to her father, and her willingness to flee the country was proof.

"Nothing," he said. "She'd done nothing, to any of you except make a few empty accusations in order to get herself out of jail."

But Angie didn't answer, instead glancing at the man standing next to her and in a matter of seconds the scene changed from a cold war to heated battle. Her rent-a-thug reached inside his jacket pocket to unveil a shiny semi-automatic but it never made it above his waist, Nathan drawing his own weapon and opening a hole between the thug's eyes in a matter of seconds. Quick though he was, he wasn't quite quick enough and another managed to clip his shoulder, sending him stumbling back into Messer and the latter pulled them both down behind a pool table, though Nathan refused to be bested. After catching his breath, he vaulted from behind the table and fired off four more rounds, each one landing in the plump melons of Angie's guests and leaving her without backup, but there was no time to celebrate the grim victory.

In slow motion, it seemed, Messer saw Don fall, a spurt of blood exiting his mouth as he landed with a heavy thud against the concrete floor. With a shout, Messer scrambled out from behind the pool table in order to check on him while Nathan ignored them both and followed a fleeing Angie through the back door of the pool hall.

"No, don't you do this to me Flack, you hear me? You stay with me," Danny ordered as he ripped his cell phone from his back pocket. As Danny dialed 911, Flack coughed and spluttered, dark red blood bubbling past his lips and dribbling in thick tendrils down his cheek to where it pooled on the floor below.

Moments later, Lindsay managed to grope her way through the crowd and planted her hands to the gunshot wound in Don's chest, putting as much pressure as she could while holding back the hot tears that threatened to spill over. His warm blood pulsed beneath her hands, the beat growing weaker with each pulse and she looked at Danny pleadingly as he finally got a hold of an operator.

"Dispatch I need a bus sent to Bottom's Up Pool Hall. I've got an officer down. Repeat, officer down."


	12. Flatlined

**Disclaimer:** Nathan's mine, no one else :)

**A/N:**Thanks for yet another review, x3sunnydaay :) Don't you just hate cliffhangers? Lol. Well, as always, I'm glad everyone's back for another chapter, and please enjoy!

**D**annysat in the corner of the ambulance feeling bothin the way and completely helpless, holding onto the shredded pieces of what used to be Don's polo shirt and looking on dumbly. Two minutes ago Flack's heart had stopped and the EMT that had fought with Dannyabout riding along was now straddling the young detective, pushing air into his lungs while the other prepared the defibrillator. With a speed Danny rarely witnessed, the EMT hopped off the gurney as the other shouted, "Clear!" and slammed the paddles to Flack's bloodied chest. His body jerked and arched off the gurney but it was in vain. Still flat-lined, they shocked him again, again, again until a steady beep returned to the monitor three minutes later, weak though it was.

The whole scene was making him lightheaded, and Messer reeled back against the wall with a heavy thunk, and shortly after he heard a light _tink, tink, tink_. Looking down he watched a small, silver ring slide across the metal floor of the ambulance and a moment later he reached down to scoop it up. Looking at it, Messer's heart sank; it was the very ring Don had flashed for him outside the Majestic Theater, petite and modest and so perfectly Keeva. After clenching it a moment, Messer pocketed it safely within his wallet just as the ambulance banked a hard left, sending him abruptly into the wall.

Minutes later they pulled into the narrow horse-shoe of the ER and wasted no time in getting Don inside, rushing him past curious onlookers in triage and into the trauma unit. Danny hurried after them, though lost sight of the gurney in the sea of blue and green scrubs just as the double doors of the trauma unit thumped closed, and he trotted to a stop beside the admissions desk, helpless in every way. Nearby, a few people had stood to try and get a better look through the narrow slits of the doors, only many of them immediately sat when Messer shot them a look to melt ice before beginning to pace until Stella arrived nearly twenty minutes later.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded, her eyes taking a quick survey of his clothes and finding the entire front of his stark white dress shirt covered in Flack's blood. His starched collar was flecked with dark red spots, along with his narrow glasses, and Stella quickly made to check for wounds on Danny that he might not have noticed from the adrenaline. "Have you been checked out? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he answered quickly, brushing her away then pointing to the trauma unit. "They've had Flack back there for half an hour now. No one'll tell me what the hell's going on in there."

"Then how about you tell me what happened at the bar?" Stella said, taking him by the arm and leading him toward an empty row of seats. The two then talked for hours, first about what had happened, then about the case, then about nothing at all, neither of them wanting to think about what was going on behind the double doors of the trauma unit.

One by one, the others soon began to trickle in yet none of them asking the single question that was on their minds, and Danny didn't offer an answer, preferring the keep the truth between himself and Stella for the time being. No one needed to know how it went down, only that they were no closer to Keeva's killer than they had been twelve hours ago, and all was suddenly forgotten when a doctor finally pushed his way out of the trauma unit looking exhausted but grimly optimistic.

"They're moving him to ICU now. He's stable but we'll be monitoring him for a week or more to make sure no unforeseen complications arise. But if you please, visiting hours aren't until morning so I suggest all of you go get some rest."

And withthat announcement he left, disappearing down a nearby hallway and leaving them all with a shallow promise of recovery and nothing else, though no one heeded the doctor's advice. The majority of the group went to find an early breakfast while Lindsay made a trip back to Messer's apartment for some clean clothes. Messer, however, stayed in the ICU waiting room the rest of the morning, never suspecting that downstairs Nathan was casually strolling through the automatic doors of the front lobby.

The bullet in his shoulder had been removed and was neatly bandaged up, the dressing hidden beneath a flashy tee-shirt that read in big letters: "FBI: Fine Body Inspector." His normally red curls had been dyed a pleasant shade of sandy brown and were now straight and combed into an attractive shaggy style. The entire look seemed to give him life and personality but it was only that: a look, a disguise, because by now the witnesses had described a pasty red-head as one of the gunmen, and he certainly couldn't risk being recognized.

"Hi there," he greeted the woman behind the broad, circular desk in the middle of the lobby, and he flashed his best smile before continuing to inquire about a certain wounded detective. "I only just got a phone call thirty minutes ago tellin' me he got shot and I know it's not visitin' hours yet, but I had t'come all th'same."

The woman smiled, her cheeks blushing slightly when he leaned on the counter and winked at her. With a little bit of fumbling, she typed a moment on her computer before managing to pull up Flack's location on the fifteenth floor. She read off the information, Nathan eyeing her the entire time, and when she finished, he clicked his tongue and winked again.

"Thanks, doll. You stay pretty," he said, holding the smile only long enough to turn his back and head for the elevator. He rode it all the way to the fifteenth floor that housed the ICU unit, and where Danny was slouched in a chair, his had hung low while he turned something over and over in his hands. Across the hall was a broad window looking onto a complicated mish-mash of monitors and wires, and directly in the middle of it all was Flack. A respirator was working rhythmically nearby, its tube taped to his mouth and breathing for him, and Nathan saw the broad bandage over his chest revealing that Angie had managed to puncture a lung, and likely nicked his heart.

Drawing in a deep breath, Nathan turned from the window to look at Danny, though the latter seemed to take no notice of him, even as he spoke his name.

"I wanted to properly thank you for saving my life. In such a situation, most men wouldn't bother with anyone but themselves," Nathan said quietly. He glanced away and tightened the canvas belt he wore, and Danny finally glanced up from his hands.

"Is that why you came all the way up here? To offer empty gratitude?"

"Honestly?" –Nathan looked through the window again and shook his head. "No. I wanted to know how he was doing, and to be the one to tell him that he can finally rest. I've silenced the demon that plagued his dreams and memories. Perhaps now he can properly mourn her death, instead of wallow in the misery of it."

"Vengeance isn't justice," Messersaid, clenching his fist around what he had been tinkering with.

Without looking at him, Nathan nodded while he tucked his hands into his pockets. "Yes, but justice doesn't always bring the same satisfaction or even closure. Besides…you had nothing with which to convict her."

Messer didn't argue, didn't even want to argue for he had walked that fine line between justice and vengeance too many times to rightfully judge another. Somehow he knew that if given the chance again, Don would havepulled that trigger just a little bit sooner. But Nathan was right. No murder weapon, no trace aside from some chocolate on Keeva's mouth, and one partial fingerprint on her plane ticket. Nothing else. Without a full confession, Angie would have walked.

"Did she tell you why?"

Nathan scoffed. "You detectives and your motives. In my world, why someone did something doesn't matter, only that they betrayed you and vengeance is yours to claim. But…if you must know, Angela became greedy. Her current revenue couldn't keep up with her extravagant lifestyle."

"So it really was just about the money," Danny muttered miserably.

The elevator down the hall dinged loudly, interrupting the quiet conversation and Danny sat up with an uneasy look at Nathan. Should he release the hounds, or let the man go? Either way Danny knew that Nathan wouldn't get caught, but in the end, he wasn't left a choice. In the time it took Danny to look at the elevator and back, Nathan was gone, the only trace of him being that of an envelope left on the chair beside him. On the front, only one word was stenciled on the front in perfect, straight letters: "Flack."

Moments later, everyone from the elevator joined him, each bearing breakfast food from the McDonald's in the third floor cafeteria and Lindsay handed him some hash browns and a sausage biscuit. Unwrapping his sandwich, Danny took a slow bite as a man in a ball cap walked by them to the elevator, his tee shirt boasting that he was a qualified body inspector, but Danny said nothing, instead chewing languidly on his breakfast as everyone settled in, the envelope tucked safely inside his back pocket.


	13. Homecoming

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I do not own Don Flack.

**A/N:** Well, I would like to thank those who reviewed, favorited, and read my little tale straight through to the end. It's been fun writing it; I certainly hope everyone's had fun reading it, and who knows? With an ending like this, I might just write another :) Anyway, there are a few new Gaelic names in here: Maimeo=Mah moh (grandmother), Roisin=Roh sheen, and Maon=Mayn, and as I like to say with every new chapter, please enjoy!

**Two Months After Flack's Discharge from the Hospital**

**T**he apartment was dark and hollow as Don opened the door and looked around. The inside was warm from the nearly five-month lapse of not using the air conditioner, and he doubted it would work now after so long. All bets were on his super cutting the power to his apartment despite his rent being paid through the year, but he was pleasantly surprised when his lights flickered on, and the AC whirred to life after tinkering with the thermostat. Dropping his duffle bag on the floor next to his feet, he then tossed his keys and a battered envelope on the table near the door where a now dust-covered photograph sat, Keeva's bright face smiling up at him and reminding him of their engagement in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree.

Touching it lightly with his fingers, he savored the memory a long moment but refused to linger having promised himself before he even made the trip over that he wasn't going to wallow in her death. It was part of the reason he hadn't been back in so long, his mind unable to fathom returning to an empty bed, an empty couch, an empty apartment, but it was time now. It was time to put things behind him, to move on and embrace the pain that would never go away no matter how many Vicodin he swallowed or how much whisky he drank, or how many months he spent in Ireland chasing an address that had been left to him by Nathan. It was time to grow.

Leaving the door propped open, Don slowly trekked toward the kitchen and drew himself a glass of water, taking only a sip before setting it down on the lip of the sink against the bar where it would eventually sweat away its chill, forgotten and unwanted in the first place. He then turned to the fridge, opening it to see what was inside only to find a number of expired foods and a few science experiments that had begun to grow on the bottom shelf, and for the life of him, Don couldn't remember what those things had been to begin with. Fresh fruits and vegetables and all things healthy had been Keeva's thing, though she could never hide from him the pint of ice cream she liked to keep behind the ice cube tray in the freezer, and against his better judgment, Don moved from the fridge to the freezer to spy a half-eaten pint of Ben & Jerry's. He then quickly shut the door and turned away from the appliance, trying to push the thoughts of her from his mind.

_A shower. I need a shower_, he thought, shrugging out of his shirt as he passed by the couch where an afghan was thrown casually over the cushions. It was one more memory of a late=night rendezvous and he quickly threw his shirt over it, reminding himself that he knew there would be no escaping her with all the little mementos scattered all over his apartment; sadistic little gadgets that existed simply to torture him. Moving to remove his undershirt, he stopped when a young girl meandered through the open door, a familiar army bag slung around her shoulder that sported a familiar array of buttons and patches, two of which were Gaelic names, and her soft, strawberry blond ringlets were pulled back into a ponytail.

"Roisin…I expected you to stay downstairs a little longer," Don said quietly, tucking his hands into his pockets and the girl shrugged as she glanced around, first at the kitchen then at Don, then at the table near her, and she reached out a hand to grab the photograph.

"Maimeo doesn't like long goodbyes. I guess I don't either."

"And she didn't try to talk you into leaving with her?" he asked with a grin, and Roisin smiled.

"Nah. She knows me well enough not to try." –she paused and stared at the photo, touching the glass with her fingers before touching her nose and continuing in a much quieter tone. "Sometimes I can't believe she had another life, y'know?"

"For so many years she was ashamed of who she was," Don said, finally taking a seat on the couch, and he took the afghan and held it. "Your mother was all about secrets. Self-preservation, but she left you with your grandmother in order to give you a chance. She just tried to do right by you."

She nodded and set the frame down, scrunching up her nose as she took another glance around the apartment. Finally, she came around to Don again and narrowed her eyes slightly, the expression bearing an uncanny resemblance to Keeva, and Don had to laugh as she crossed her arms firmly over her chest. "So how is this going to work? Neither of us really worked out the particulars."

There was a moment's silence as they surveyed one another, a practice that was becoming common between them since they had met on the front lawn of Maon O'Connell's home in Dublin, until Don picked up his shirt. "Listen," he began, wadding up the cloth and chucking it inside his bedroom. "I'm obviously not your father, but I am responsible for you. You're the one who wanted to come on this trip and stay for awhile, so all I ask is that you play by my rules."

"And those are?" she challenged, tapping an index finger on her arm.

Don grinned and headed into the bedroom, suddenly more anxious than ever to take that hot shower. "Just stay out of trouble. I don't want to have to arrest you."

Roisin watched him until he disappeared into the bathroom and she took his previous seat on the couch. Mulling over the last few hours and the few days he visited in Ireland, Roisin couldn't help but laugh and collapse into the fluffy cushions. It was going to be an interesting month staying in New York City with one of New York's Finest.


End file.
